by Michael Bond
‘I hardly know what to say, Monsieur. It will be a huge undertaking. I don’t know what my wife will feel about it—’
‘Ah, Doucette!’ boomed the Director. ‘She is a good lady. Always thinking of others. But tell her not to lose too much sleep. I shall manage to cope.’
‘But, Monsieur—’
Monsieur Leclercq raised his hands. ‘I know what you are about to say, Aristide. How will I manage to fit it in along with all my other responsibilities? Where there is a will, there is a way. It is an old saying, but a very true one nonetheless.’
Deep down Monsieur Pamplemousse had to admit to a feeling of relief. It had much in common with the moment when he mistakenly thought the Director was offering him a post in New York. In truth, he was perfectly happy with his present status in life.
‘I must confess I still prefer doing things the old way,’ he said. ‘It keeps you in touch with reality.
‘Human beings are gradually becoming more and more isolated from each other. These days, even making a telephone call lacks warmth. You never know whether the voice reading out an endless list of numbers to press, none of which correspond with who you really wish to speak to, is real or not. One has to be careful about losing one’s temper in case for once it happens to be a real person. Many a time and oft I have come near to throwing my mobile out of the window.
‘Soon there will be no surprises left in the world. Driving around and coming across places quite by chance will become a thing of the past, particularly if finding a good restaurant means that one day people will have no use for a printed guide.’
‘That is Deux Chevaux thinking, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq.
‘That is partly why I like it,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Rest assured, Pamplemousse, there will still be a need for people to search them out and make an informed judgement in the first place. Perhaps more than ever, and that is where you come in. You and your colleagues will always be an indispensable link in the chain. Which reminds me …
‘I am told the village blacksmith has finished his side of things and has handed your car back to the garage. Unfortunately, they are having problems with an audio warning system I am having fitted. It keeps saying there is no passenger door—’
‘That is probably because there is no inside to the lock,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It has been like that for a number of years. There is some string under the front seat.’
‘Ah,’ said Monsieur Leclercq. ‘In that case it is ready for collection. However, your mention of the front seat reminds me of another matter …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse braced himself, but he was saved in the nick of time by a knock on the door; almost as though someone had been awaiting their cue.
There was a moment’s pause, then Madame Leclercq entered.
‘You have done quite enough talking for one morning, Henri,’ she said briskly, as she set about tidying the bedclothes. ‘The doctor is due any moment and he will be very cross with you.’
Monsieur Leclercq didn’t actually say ‘Not tonight, Josephine’ as he sank back onto his pillow, but the thought was clearly there.
‘How did you find Henri?’ asked Chantal, as they made their way down the stairs.
‘I think he is on the mend,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse cautiously. ‘Time is a great healer.’
Chantal looked relieved. ‘He hasn’t been his usual self since the day I dropped him off at the gare in Lisieux to pick up your car. I can’t help feeling it is partly my fault. He should have stayed in bed.
‘On top of everything else, he is suffering from something called Ornithophobia.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It sounds painful.’
‘Fear of anything with wings,’ said Chantal. ‘They only discovered it because I came across a boxed set of Alfred Hitchcock DVDs I had given him for his birthday. I thought it might cheer him up while he was in bed.
‘Unfortunately, he chose to watch one called The Birds and it left him a shivering wreck. I really don’t understand it.’
‘A lot of people are nervous of them,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Especially when they get very close.’
‘To make matters worse, he keeps sending people messages. He calls it “twittering”. I suppose it must be some kind of side effect.’
‘I shouldn’t worry too much,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It is a new means of communication where you have to say things in less than 140 words. I doubt if he will keep it up for long.’
Chantal looked relieved. ‘I have been saving these for you.’ She pointed to a pile of journals on the hall table. ‘They are all Pommes Frites’ reviews.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse scanned the headline on the top copy: ‘A STAR IS BORN!’ he exclaimed.
‘Henri has received some very nice ones, of course, but Pommes Frites even had one in an English journal. The headline was POETRY IN MOTIONS. I’m not quite sure what that one meant.’
‘It sounds like an English play on words,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, gathering up the pile. ‘They love double meanings.’
When Chantal dropped him off at the garage to pick up his car she presented him with a parcel to take back to Paris.
‘Henri says you must take great care of it on the way; no squeezing, and make sure you keep it upright. There is also something in there for Pommes Frites. It sounds like a Christmas present.’
‘I suppose in a way it is,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘We shall certainly treat it as such.’
‘I must say, Aristide, it is a big bonus having you home much sooner than I expected,’ said Doucette. ‘When you phoned to say you were on your way to Alsace-Lorraine I thought you might be gone for weeks.’
‘It feels much longer than it really was,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘In the end we didn’t get any further than Caen.’
‘You must have been there when that priest was shot,’ said Doucette. ‘Very sad really. You probably know more about it than I do, but I gather he was found floating in a marina. At first the police assumed it was suicide, but it seems there were three bullet holes. One where they say it hurts most, and two in the temple, so they now think it could be murder.’
‘I would have come to the same conclusion,’ admitted Monsieur Pamplemousse dryly.
‘Mind you,’ said Doucette, ‘he did sound a bit suspect. His behaviour once he came down from the pulpit was a matter of some concern. Reading between the lines, it sounds as though they have had their eyes on him for some while. What was he doing prowling around the marina at that time of night anyway, I would like to know? And in the pouring rain.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse stared at her. ‘You don’t mean …’ he began ‘You can’t mean … it was a real one?’
‘It could hardly have been a toy pistol,’ said Doucette.
‘I don’t mean the gun,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I mean the priest.’
‘Well, he didn’t take the service on the Sunday, if that’s anything to go by,’ said Doucette. ‘And no one has seen him since. Paris Match is implying choirboys can look forward to a more restful time in future, but you know what they are like.’
‘Sacre bleu!’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.
‘Aristide!’ said Doucette. ‘He was a priest, after all.’
For a moment or two he hardly heard what she was saying. His mind was in overdrive.
Such things weren’t unknown, of course. They happened in the best-regulated circles. Sometimes they ended up gathering dust as an entry in the police files. At other times, if the press took it into their heads to make a meal of it, or politics were involved, it was another matter.
The English police were still licking their wounds following the shooting of a suspected terrorist on the London Underground, and probably would be for years to come.
It was the ‘being in a certain place at a certain time’ syndrome yet again; although in this instance those involved must be feeling there was a lot to be said fo
r it being a case of ‘the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time’. Others might call it ’rough justice’.
What was it the American writer Saul Bellow had said when asked about the difference between ignorance and indifference? ‘I don’t know and I don’t care!’
It would have been a salutary warning to Corby. He would feel the net was definitely closing in on him. As for Amber, wherever she was by now, she might never know the truth until such time as Corby showed his head again – if he ever did.
Reaching into his pocket, he produced a card that had been left for him at the hotel in Caen, read a pencilled number on the back, and reached for the phone.
‘What now, Aristide?’ asked Doucette. ‘You’ve only just got back.’
‘I want to find out what time Boucherie Lamartine opens in the morning, Couscous. Pommes Frites has an appointment with them, courtesy of Monsieur Leclercq. It might be as well to arrive there before it gets too crowded. It could be a long job.
‘Otherwise, there is no great hurry. I have a bottle of wine which needs to rest for a few days.’
The call completed, he turned the card over. It bore the name of a restaurant in Las Vegas, most of which had been obliterated by a message written in black.
‘Any chance of coming to the Grand Reopening? I’m thinking of calling it “The Enigma”. You could have the “day’s special” – Sonofabitch Stew.’
He was about to tear the card into small pieces when he hesitated. He had yet to make a printout of the first picture he had taken of Amber and Pommes Frites. He had promised to send her a copy and a promise was a promise.
‘Before you do anything else, Aristide,’ said Doucette, ‘your suit looks as though a visit to the cleaners wouldn’t come amiss. I’ll take it tomorrow.’
The words were hardly out of her mouth before he felt something tugging at his right trouser leg.
‘I think Pommes Frites wants to go out,’ said Doucette. ‘It’s been a long drive.’
‘But he has only just—’
Monsieur Pamplemousse broke off as he glanced down and saw Pommes Frites looking up at him anxiously. He placed an index finger against his nose, indicating message received and understood. Pockets must first be emptied of all souvenirs.
‘Good boy,’ he said, when they were outside the apartment. ‘What would I do without you?’
Pommes Frites wagged his tail. It was good to get something right at long last. But then, life with his master was full of surprises. No two days were ever the same and quite frankly, he wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Monsieur Pamplemousse, on the other hand, was in a bit of a quandary. The news that the wrong person had got his comeuppance took a bit of getting used to. It also raised the question, should he, or should he not, accept the Director’s gifts for a job that was, after all, only half done?
Pommes Frites would be looking forward to his visit to the butchers, there could be no going back on that.
The wine was another matter. Margaux 45 was renowned for its lasting qualities. Another week or so would hardly matter one way or the other.
The door to his apartment suddenly opened.
‘Is there anything the matter, Aristide?’ asked Doucette.
‘I was thinking, Couscous,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Perhaps we could invite the Leclercqs over here for dinner one evening.’
‘Do you think they would come?’ asked Doucette.
‘I’m sure they will if I say we want to share the bottle of wine the Director gave me. I shall feel much better about it.’
‘What shall I wear?’ said Doucette, clearly thrown by the whole idea.
Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his eyes heavenwards as he pressed the lift button. Problems! Problems!
Who was it that said, ‘You can’t please all the people all the time?’ At the end of the day, life mostly had to do with striking a happy balance.
Read on for an extract from
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution,
the previous book in Michael Bond’s
Pamplemousse and Pommes Frites series …
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution
MICHAEL BOND
CHAPTER ONE
‘Merde!’
The moment Monsieur Pamplemousse placed his ID card against a brass plate set in the wall outside Le Guide’s headquarters and nothing happened, he knew it was going to be ‘one of those days’.
By rights, there should have been a discreet buzz, followed by a faint click as a small oak door let into one of a much larger pair swung open on its well-oiled hinges, thus allowing free passage to any member of staff wishing to enter the august premises on foot. Instead of which … what happened? Nothing!
He tried repeating the process, this time holding the card in place rather longer than before, but again to no avail.
Looking, if possible, even more upset than his master, Pommes Frites lowered himself gently onto the cold pavement, stared at the offending piece of metal as though daring it to misbehave for a third time, then raised his head and gave vent to a loud howl.
To anyone close by, the mournful tone would have said it all, but it was lunchtime and the rue Fabert was deserted. That being so, and having decided knocking on the door would be a waste of both time and knuckles, Monsieur Pamplemousse applied a shoulder to it.
For all the effect it had, he might have been paying a surprise visit to Fort Knox with a view to enquiring how things were going with their gold reserves. There was what the powers that be might have called a negative response.
Nursing his right shoulder, the very same shoulder that had performed yeoman service whenever called upon to act as a battering ram during his years with the Paris Sûreté, he had to admit he found the situation extremely annoying.
He wouldn’t have minded quite so much had he not received a message from the Director summoning him back to headquarters tout de suite.
His first thought had been ‘Not again!’ followed in quick succession by ‘What is it this time?’ and ‘If it’s that important, why isn’t he using the word “Estragon”; Le Guide’s standard code word for use in an emergency?’
He had spent most of the journey turning it over in his mind. The last time he had received such a summons had been when they were called in to offer advice on a possible terrorist attack on the food chain. It had all been very Hush Hush.
Once again, no reason had been given, but by comparison, the latest message – DROP EVERYTHING. PLEASE RETURN TO BASE IMMEDIATELY – was positively verbose. Although it imparted a sense of urgency, the use of the word ‘Please’ – not a word that normally figured large in Monsieur Leclercq’s vocabulary – was unusual to say the least. It struck a personal note.
It was not as though he had wasted any time getting there. Setting off from Rodez in the Midi-Pyrénées at a ridiculously early hour, he had driven the 600 kilometres to Paris almost non-stop. He hadn’t even been home, but instead headed straight for the office.
To arrive and find they were locked out was akin to arriving at a theatre all set for an evening’s entertainment, only to discover it was the wrong night. Both were equally dispiriting.
An even more frustrating aspect of the whole affair was that it had meant cutting short his current tour of duty. On the principle of saving the best until last, he had been looking forward to rounding it off in the small town of Laguiole, home to both the eponymous cutlery firm and the equally renowned restaurant Bras, famous for the patron’s wondrous ways with the flora of the region.
Anticipating a brief stop at the former to do some Christmas shopping for his wife, he had pictured heading up the Puech du Suquet, a small mountain just outside the town, arriving at the futuristic restaurant perched like a space capsule on its launch pad at the very top, in good time for lunch.
Overlooking the vast Aubrac plateau, there was very little in the way of natural growth that didn’t find its way into Monsieur Bras’s kitchen sooner or later.
Wild herbs, fennel, sorrel, celeriac, coriander, garlic, all were grist to his mill.
It was the kind of gastronomic experience that made the time spent away from home, driving for hours on end and putting up in strange hotels, abundantly worthwhile.
Given that it was near the end of October and the hotel and its restaurant would soon be closing down for the winter months, the chance wouldn’t come his way again until next March at the earliest, if then.
In all probability, anonymity being one of the keywords of Le Guide, he would find himself assigned to a very different part of France. Word travelled fast and it didn’t do to become too well known in any one area.
His Cupillard Rième watch showed almost 12.45. Even now he might be tucking in to what Michel Bras called his Gargouillou – a warm salad of over twenty young vegetables, each separately steamed before being brought together in total harmony. The ingredients varied with the season of course, and no two days were alike, but they were always as fresh as they could possibly be. However, there was no point in dwelling on it.
He stared the massive oak doors. What now? He couldn’t even make use of his mobile phone. The battery had gone flat halfway through his tour and he had left his charger at home.
Security at Le Guide’s offices in the 16th arrondissement of Paris was a serious matter at the best of times, but especially so during the latter part of the year. Staff were almost wholly engaged in the mammoth task of collating reports and information concerning some ten thousand or so hotels and restaurants across the length and breadth of le hexagon; afterwards checking and rechecking, first the galleys, then the page proofs and finally the guide itself.
In the months leading up to spring publication, secrecy was paramount. Anyone caught breaking the rule ran the risk of instant dismissal.
All the same, totally denying him entry seemed to be carrying things a little too far.
